Ten years after my family disowned me for choosing a career as an Army physician, I returned home for my grandfather’s funeral.
To me, he had not been an influential official. He had simply been another patient bleeding on my operating table.
Reed said he had come to pay his respects because my grandfather had spoken about me shortly before his death.
That hurt more than my father’s insults. General Vance and I had barely spoken in years.
After Reed moved away, Arthur cornered me near the hallway.
“How do you know him?”
“You meet certain people,” I replied, “on the worst day of their lives.”
I left the reception and stepped into the rain.
Reed followed me outside carrying two cups of coffee. He handed me one, then opened his palm.
My grandfather’s old silver lighter rested there.
“He wanted you to have this,” Reed said.
A folded piece of paper had been taped beneath it. My name was written across the surface in my grandfather’s handwriting.
Clarissa.
“He gave it to me personally two weeks ago,” Reed explained. “He made me promise to place it in your hands, not your father’s.”
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